


The Dead Among The Living

by Tiofrean



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Heart-to-Heart, Implied Past Sex, M/M, Post-War of the Ring, Reminiscing, They Are Both Giant Chinchillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:53:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21675559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: Long after the war has ended, the King and the Steward share a few glasses of wine and some stories of old. They have both lost their friends and family but, thankfully, they still have each other to fall back on.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Past Aragorn | Estel/Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Past Aragorn | Estel/Haldir of Lothlórien
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36





	The Dead Among The Living

**Author's Note:**

> MermaidSheenaz, le hannon a dulu lin, hir nin <3 
> 
> MermaidSheenaz checked it up and down to eliminate any possible mistakes. If any remain, they are on me. 
> 
> Enjoy! <3

“If it’s not the taxes, nor the restoration of the eastern wall, then what keeps you awake at night, my king?” Faramir asked, sipping the wine slowly,  his eyes never leaving Aragorn.

It was late already, way further into the night than their usual meetings took place, but it had been a busy day followed by an even more busy evening, and only now they could find some respite among the dusty bookshelves inside Aragorn’s study. The wine was spicy, prepared specifically for the chill frosting the windows, but it served mostly for their tongues’ delight here - the citadel was well-warmed with huge fireplaces and wood crackling merrily in their bellies. 

Even in the glow coming from the fire, Aragorn looked sad and tired, and if it had not been for his insistence at Faramir’s company, the prince would have left an hour ago. As it was, he was still seated in the spacious armchair, his feet stretched towards the fire, shoes forgotten. He felt warm enough to dispose of his vest and to undo the buttons of his tunic, revealing the white undershirt he was wearing. His king, however, had remained fully clothed, and was now deep in the process of unconsciously wrapping himself even tighter in his royal cloak. 

Faramir knew from experience that, when one was severely underslept, one would feel cold even in the warmest of rooms. Seeing how Aragorn looked close to shivering, knowing that the small sounds in the middle of the night had been made by him also - ceaselessly wandering the darkened corridors in lieu of the sleep that wouldn’t come - Faramir worried about his king… his  _ friend. _

“You look dangerously close to a battlefield, if you don’t mind me saying that, my lord. And I have to admit that I worry about you.” The prince said quietly, still watching Aragorn, who sighed and rubbed at his forehead with one elegant hand. Those same hands were capable of wielding the deadly weight of Andúril, but were now calling to Faramir to hold them gently between his own palms, rub some heat into them until the skin regained some of its healthy color.    
“It is not an easy question to find the answer to,” Aragorn muttered at last, shrugging.    
“I know it’s not your duty that keeps you away from your bed.” 

Oh yes, he knew that. Faramir had made sure to keep his king’s schedule loose enough to fit everything in without overworking their liege.  Elessar was a formidable man, strong and hardened like the best steel, but even he could grow weary, and Faramir had appointed himself to stop that from happening. 

Again, Aragorn sighed, then lowered the cup of wine, resting his hand on his raised thigh. He had a funny way of sitting in his chair, Faramir observed, with one knee raised and the heel of his leg braced against the edge of the chair. It was strangely fascinating to see him in such a position, a set-up not unlike one of the rangers, trying to get comfortable in the surroundings he was thrown into. 

“Do you ever dream of the past, Faramir?” The king asked cryptically, his gaze stuck in the wine. Faramir frowned, thinking about the answer.    
“I do, yes. On occasion… I haven’t for some time now, though.”    
“The times are peaceful… quiet. Yes, I think it unwise to look back when we should focus our gaze forward,” Aragorn went on, but his words were soft, his usual confidence nowhere to be found.    
“The past is as much a part of us as our future is, my king. What  _ do _ you see when you lay your head to rest?” 

Aragorn’s reply, when it came, was barely audible. His voice was faint, barely a breeze slipping between them and disappearing into the night.   
“My dreams have the faces of ghosts in them…” Elessar whispered, a wince dancing in the angular edges of his face, never quite making it to the surface. Faramir could see it, lingering just out of sight, threatening to crumble that carefully maintained calmness.   
“Ghosts?”   
“The dead. The ones we’ve lost… the ones _I’ve_ lost,” Aragorn clarified, raising the cup to his lips, as if the wine could wash away the sorrow hiding in his eyes. 

Faramir’s frown deepened, his mind busy thinking about something he could offer as a consolation. He knew that the war had hit everyone hard, leaving behind wounds and scars that would not easily disappear. Lady Arwen, his king’s great love, had sailed away, but was now alive and well in Aman. Surely it was enough of a consolation to exclude her from the  _ dead _ circle of people who might be disturbing Aragorn’s sleep. But if not Lady Arwen, then who?

“Do you dream of Boromir?” The king asked unexpectedly, and the clouds cleared in Faramir’s mind. He nodded, suddenly feeling his throat tightening.  _ Boromir. _ Of course! Aragorn had known him, after all, they had spent a substantial part of the travel together.    
“Aye,” Faramir answered, dragging his gaze to the fire, a chill running up his spine. “He was my brother, and I loved him very much.  It would be curious if my heart didn’t remind me about him from time to time…”    
“Ah! Forgive me,” Elessar muttered, hanging his head low, the wild mane of his hair flowing in curtains around his face. The crown was not present, sitting forgotten on the desk, and Faramir felt a longing to reach out and push the unruly hair back into place, if only to see his king’s eyes. 

“There is nothing to forgive. Truly, if there was a spell powerful enough to bring him back to life, I wouldn’t hesitate to perform it.” He wouldn’t. If there was a wizard or witch capable of bringing the dead back to life, he would go and plead for Boromir to return.    
“I’m afraid no such spell has been conceived outside the dark realm, and its Lord is not someone we would want anywhere near our beloved,” Aragorn remarked, sighing yet again. Faramir nodded, knowing well that Elessar was right. And yet…    
“Tell me about him, my lord.” The prince prompted, raising his eyes to Aragorn. His king jerked his head up, but cast his gaze away quickly, his throat working hard.    
“I do not think it wise to bring back his last moments into this room. The evening is gloomy enough as it is… I doubt the pain of it would cure our insomnia.” 

Hearing that, Faramir shook his head furiously.    
“No! That is not what I meant!” He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. When he had been a small boy, just after his mother had passed away, Faramir had been devastated. He couldn’t even remember her now, but he could still recall the grief and loss her death had left behind. He had cried for hours, shutting himself up in the vast library, until Mithrandir had found him there one day, sniveling and scared, a child lost in the world of adults. 

_ Think about her, Faramir, _ he had said, gathering him close and hiding him in his the safety of his arms,  _ think about her, for as long as you do, she will be alive.  _

“As long as we think about him, he shall live forever…” the prince murmured, his voice low. “I have not seen my brother since the retaking of Osgiliath. We parted our ways when he went to Rivendell…”   
“I’m sorry,” Elessar offered, equally quietly.    
“He was a warrior. He had chosen this path and he died the death of the brave, protecting those in need.” 

To that, Aragorn nodded vehemently. He had been the one to tell Faramir the details, after all. Once the war had ended and the peace had become reality, they had sat down on one of the many balconies, sipped wine and talked about the quest. Aragorn had told Faramir about his brother then, about his honorable deeds and the pull of the ring. He had made sure to explain that Boromir had pulled through in the end, choosing the right side and protecting Frodo by drawing the Orcs to himself. 

“Tell me about him, my lord. Tell me not of his death, but of the kind heart I know he had,” Faramir requested, watching Aragorn closely. The king nodded, took a sip of his wine, then put the cup on the small table next to the armchair.    
“He had a kind heart, indeed, even if he did everything he could not to announce it to everyone around,” he started, one hand digging in the pocket of his robe. After a quick search, the hand appeared again, holding a pipe Faramir was so familiar with by now. Bringing one of the candles close, Aragorn lit it, then puffed the smoke out thoughtfully. 

“At the beginning of our journey, he was pretty distanced. But, after a few days, he took to the Hobbits…” the king recalled, smiling softly. “I never thought it possible to change someone so much in a span of a few days… But Boromir went from being detached to fiercely protective over Merry and Pippin! He would always keep an eye on them, make sure they were safe when we walked and well-fed when we paused for some rest.” 

Faramir had heard about the famous second breakfasts of the Shire Folk, but he was surprised that his brother, a soldier at heart, would even consider stopping for something as insignificant as additional food. It was not the warrior’s way certainly - a few bites here and there, sure, but to actually take a break and prepare a whole meal? 

“Aye!” Aragorn grinned and nodded, noticing Faramir’s surprise. “About a month into our travel he was the one keeping track of meals and reminding us all that we should stop for a luncheon or a quick supper.”    
“Truly!” The prince allowed himself a small laugh, the difficulty of imagining his brother pursuing food as he would pursue orcs making his spirits lighter. “I do have trouble seeing Boromir thus!”    
“I know, had I not been there I wouldn’t believe it either.” Aragorn shook his head. “And that was not even the half of it! In the night, he would place himself on one side of our joined blankets, while I took the other. The Hobbits always went to sleep between us, so that we could guard them should any trouble arise.  But, when the morning came, they would all be piled upon Boromir, covering him from head to toe, enough to fool me into believing he was not even there!” 

The picture his mind conjured startled Faramir into a merry giggle, and he had to put down his wine lest he spill it. There was a happy twinkle in Aragorn’s eyes also, his lips stretched into a wide smile that took years off him and erased any fatigue he might have been feeling. 

“My brother! A cuddly bear!” The prince laughed again, to which Aragorn nodded solemnly.    
“I thought about joining them once when the morning was cold and rainy, but Pippin gifted me with such a scowl that I went to find us some breakfast instead,” the king went on, the tone of his voice that of a carefully maintained seriousness. It served to send Faramir into another set of belly-shaking giggles, and he curled up in his armchair, begging for mercy shortly after. 

The prince’s laughter was like a balm soothing all his sores, and Aragorn found himself reluctant to ease up on the stories, as he threw in a word or two about a snowball battle on Caradhras and about Boromir’s attempts at teaching their Shire friends how to fight with a sword. It had paid off in the end, and Aragorn couldn’t help but think that his brother in arms would be proud of his little Hobbits. 

Unbidden, the king’s mind went to the night they shared with Boromir, shortly after their arrival in Caras Galadhon. They had been fed and offered rest, but the sleep had dodged them, and so they had found themselves in the woods just outside the city. The air had been warm then, laden with unending laments for their lost friends carried on by the leaves of the overgrown trees, but even that Elvish magic permeating the air had not been enough to soothe their souls. They had met under a tall mallorn, the green moss under their feet a welcome bed to lie upon. And when they had torn the clothing off of each other’s bodies, it had turned out that not only the king’s hands held healing powers within them. 

All that was gone now - Boromir with his laughing eyes, with his sharp tongue and unlimited courage. Boromir, who’s only quest had always been the safety of his people, whether peasants, Hobbits or the future King of Gondor. He had died as a warrior, taking with him one of the few simple joys of Aragorn’s life, leaving his brother desolate in the wake of his death, providing them only with memories to stave off the chill of long, autumn nights. 

“My king?” Faramir’s soft voice carried through the short distance between them, but its sound startled the king. He looked up, the visage of his trusted steward suddenly blurry, before the unshed tears were blinked away.    
“I do miss him, Faramir…” He whispered, diverting his attention to the cup of wine, picking it up and drinking down the rest of it.  Miruvor was sweet, the taste heavy on his tongue, not unlike blood, reminding him of the weight on his shoulders. The burden of friends which had died under his command,  _ alongside him, _ while he had survived and carried on, was unbearable sometimes.

“Too many people have died, my friend. Too many people and Elves, Hobbits and Dwarves…”    
“Aye. War is a cruel mistress, my lord. It promises change and brings pain, then leaves desolation in its wake. But, I dare say, the warriors know of their fate…” The prince trailed off, giving Aragorn time to think about his words, before he continued. “Even if I still cannot believe that Boromir is dead sometimes, even when I still expect him to barge into my room on lonely nights, to whisk me off to one tavern or another, I am not delusional. I have never been. I have always known that a day would come when he would not return from a battle. Such was his way - he would fight in the first line, right along his men, leading by example and keeping everyone safe.”    
“A true captain,” Aragorn supplied.    
“Yes. It hurts still, and will hurt for a long time I’d reckon, but this is the way of a warrior. And so, I shall make my peace with that. To tell the truth, it hurts a lot more to see the deaths of the ones who were supposed to live… children… women…”    
“Elves.” The king added, before he fell silent again. 

For a long moment, he was so busy sorting through the mess of emotions raging inside him that he failed to notice Faramir’s keen gaze focused on him. When he raised his eyes again, the prince was watching him quietly, a look full of compassion etched all over his face.    
“Boromir was not the only friend you have lost in the war, was he?”    
“Haldir.” Aragorn’s voice was choked, his throat too tight to work properly. Faramir eyed him thoughtfully, before he grabbed the flagon of Miruvor standing on the table and poured some more wine into their cups. Elessar drank gratefully, content to remain quiet for a bit longer, concerned about the rawness he felt in his mind and soul.    
“Tell me about him,” Faramir prompted on a whisper. “Tell me about him and keep him alive just for the two of us.” 

Knowing that his steward was right, trusting him implicitly with even the most fragile of memories, Aragorn finally voiced his thoughts.    
“He was an Elf, as you might have guessed, a marchwarden of Lórien and the guard of their northern borders. He was…  _ brave,” _ the king hesitated slightly, almost as if the courage he had once found in his friend could be changed from a virtue into a vice. Faramir frowned, but remained silent, letting Aragorn speak. 

“His quick wit wasn’t easily matched, and he had a keen insight into people’s hearts, which was as accurate as his aim with a bow. He shied from nothing, always ready to carry out Lady Galadriel’s orders, whether to protect or to attack...” 

As Faramir listened, he couldn’t help the feeling of formality that encompassed him with every word uttered by his king. Elessar sounded almost like a captain listing the characteristics of one of his soldiers, putting value on him as if he tried to get him promoted. It occurred to him that Aragorn was still building a wall inside his heart to stop himself from feeling and thus getting hurt. Knowing from experience that this path led to nowhere, Faramir changed tactics. 

“Have you known him for long?” He asked, keeping his voice gentle. Immediately, Aragorn nodded.    
“Yes, ever since I was a young ranger. One of my first patrols took me to the northern parts of Lothlórien, following a pack of goblins that had arrived from the mountains. I didn’t find an enemy but a friend on that travel, meeting Haldir just outside the forest. He had observed me for two days before he had made himself known, scaring the living daylights out of me when he jumped down from a tree in the middle of the night.” Aragorn’s lips curled up briefly at the memory, and Faramir smiled, too.    
“That must have been startling!”    
“Indeed. But, once we’ve talked and I came to know him a bit, there was no more suspicion on my part. Do not get me wrong, Faramir, he was a formidable warrior,  planting fear in his foes’ hearts as easily as he planted new trees in his beloved Lórien, but once he deemed someone a friend, the danger disappeared completely. I have always felt safe with him, whether wearing my armor or without a stitch of clothing to me, alone in the middle of the night-” 

The king broke off suddenly, almost as if he just now realized what he had said. He looked down into his cup and, seeing that it was empty already, proceeded to stare into the bottom of it, his lip caught between sharp teeth until it turned white. Watching his friend in such obvious distress, not sure what to do,  Faramir chose to listen to his heart.  He got up slowly from his seat and moved forward, crossing the space between them in two short steps. Once his knees were almost touching Aragorn’s he lowered himself on the heavy bearskin under their feet, plucking the empty cup from Elessar,  wrapping his fingers around the royal hand instead . When he dared to look up, he saw  the tears misting Aragorn’s eyes, held back with stubborn determination.

“He did not deserve the fate that befell him,” the king whispered, barely audible. “Immortal beings are not meant to die brooding in mud and blood, with fear in their gaze and cold eating them away…”

It was into Faramir’s hair that the tears fell, a short moment later, after the prince had wrapped his arms around Aragorn’s waist and hugged his king close. He cried silently, his shaking body a testament to the strength of his feelings, and Faramir vowed to be there for as long as his king needed him, kneeling at his feet and keeping him from trembling apart. 

When they parted finally, it was Aragorn who pulled back, his reddened eyes watching Faramir with so much love that the steward felt it deep inside his own heart.    
“Not all good things are lost,” the king murmured, just before he leaned in and pressed his lips to Faramir’s forehead, a tender acknowledgement and seemingly nothing more. But Faramir, with his own insight into the hearts of people, with the ability to read the very soul of every being he encountered, could clearly see an opening in this small gesture, a chance at unity one rarely has the opportunity of finding. 

Raising his hand to thread his fingers through Aragorn’s hair, he rose up slightly, allowing their mouths to meet in a kiss no less tender than the previous one, but one infinitely more significant than any other. 

Much later, when they lay curled against each other, sharing a thick blanket and a large pillow, Faramir felt a small seed of happiness coming to life inside him. The king was asleep, his arms wrapped securely around Faramir’s waist, his nose pushed into the warm skin of his neck, and the prince contented himself with listening to the steady breathing, enjoying the way Aragorn’s ribs rubbed against his own with every inhale. The ghosts were gone, chased away at least for one night,  discouraged by the warmth and erased with gentleness quickly giving way to love. In the darkness of the room, the prince promised himself to keep the dead alive in their memory, and to do what he could to make the nightmares disappear. Going by the satisfied sigh tickling his skin, he was off to a good start. 


End file.
